My main ambition when my wife went into labour was to be sober. Three years ago, when our first child was born, I had been rushing to finish a book. I had suspected, rightly, that it would be impossible to reconcile book production with new fatherhood. To finish the manuscript before the baby arrived I'd taken to drinking several cups of coffee after dinner and working right through the night. I would quit at around 4am, then knock myself out with cheap wine.

When Tabitha's waters broke, I had just thrown back a third glass of unsentimental Chardonnay. I'd driven her to the hospital at 5mph and then, somewhat dramatically, passed out on her delivery-room bed. I woke up just in time to witness the birth of my first child (Quinn Tallulah Lewis) but made, I fear, a poor impression. This was a chance to redeem myself.

Last Monday evening, just before cocktail hour, Tabitha said she felt funny. Two hours later, we were walking up and down the hospital halls to accelerate her labour to the point where it generated the respect of the women who doled out delivery rooms. Having done this, I settled into the chair beside Tabitha's bed and watched nurses plug in the narcotics drip, the penicillin drip, thermometers, oxygen masks, blood-pressure gauges, heart monitors, and God knows what else.

And then ... nothing. For the next 10 hours, we sat around with expectant looks, like extras on a filmset. From the point of view of the woman, "labour" is well named; from the point of view of the man, it really should be called "waiting". Your wife goes into labour; you go into waiting.

A woman in labour needs to believe, however much evidence she has to the contrary, that the man in waiting beside her bed is directing every ounce of his concern towards her. This is, of course, impossible.

So, for the man, the trick in waiting is to disguise his private interests. He learns to camouflage trips to the loo as cold drink-fetching missions. When he is hungry, he waits until his wife dozes off, then nips furtively down to the hospital vending machine for a slap-up supper of crisps and chocolate.

At some point in his private ordeal, one of the hospital staff will turn to him and ask, sweetly, "And how is dad doing?" He must understand that no one actually cares how dad is doing. His fatigue, his worries, his tedium, his disappointment at the contents of hospital vending machines - these are better unmentioned.

Above all, he must know that if his mask of perfect selflessness slips for even a moment he will be rumbled.

"Would a little food taste good to you right now?"

"I don't think so." (Muffled, through oxygen mask.)

"Because they have Hula Hoops in the vending machine. Barbecue flavour."

The fixed accusing stare. "You're incredible." Pause. A weary tone: "If you want something to eat, just go get something to eat."

At great and tedious length, 14 hours after labour began, the baby finally made its dash for the exit. Then it stopped. The doctor on call poked and prodded a bit, then took off her gloves and stared.

Then another doctor appeared, Tabitha's doctor, conveniently just back from vacation. They spoke for maybe two minutes, in English that was about as intelligible as their handwriting. Then I remembered that it was my job to know what was going on. "What's up?"

"The baby wants to come out face first," said the doctor on call.

"And that's not good?"

"It won't fit," said Tabitha's doctor. He let that unpleasant thought hang in the air.

"We can't get a grip on it to turn it around," said the doctor on call.

Without ever uttering the phrase "C-section", the two doctors conveyed the idea of it well enough. As Tabitha's doctor leaned in to see what he could do, I leaned over Tabitha and, drawing upon my years of selling bonds for Salomon Brothers, tried to persuade her of all the advantages to having her stomach cut open.

She pretended to nod and agree, but tears welled in her eyes. The doctors, to their credit, noticed her distress. Before I knew how it happened, Tabitha's doctor brandished a large pair of suction cups, one over each hand.

"I'm going to try to pull this baby out," he said, in a different tone.

He was no longer a doctor. He was a deep-sea fisherman. One of those guys who sit on the back of big motor boats hauling in schools of giant tuna with one hand while drinking beer with the other.

Ten minutes later, by some miracle I am still hazy about, he was hauling a baby girl into the world. I knew from experience that the little involuntary sob of joy I made as my eyes met Tabitha's was a fleeting sensation.

I also knew that other, less understandable emotions would soon follow.

· This is an edited version of an article that first appeared in Slate